we wish we were models
by Masquerading with Shadows
Summary: please don't feed the models. jade-centric. jade/beck; beck/tori.


(Beck Oliver's girlfriend was pretty.)

.

Beck and Jade break-up in college when she's only nineteen and a half, and she feels pathetic and weak and so fucking breakable that she cries for five minutes, burying her head in her pillow while wishing that it didn't smell like his cologne. She goes to bed at five in the afternoon that day, and she tries not to think too hard as she uses his forgotten flannel shirt as pyjamas.

She pulls out of college three days later, and _no_, it isn't because of him, and catches a bus to the highest skyscraper in the middle of the city, having Tori's five minute message as her background message (she deletes it as soon as it's finished, with only one sentence stuck in her mind – _I'm dating Beck_).

She books a hotel and goes out to find an audition the very next day. She tries out for audition after audition after audition, but she doesn't get the parts because she's too good, and they're too stupid, and she thinks the world just has to be against her (they tell her to lose the frown and the make-up stains, because no one likes a broken-hearted girl with broken dreams on their doorstep).

One person comes up to her after her ninth audition, a contemplative look on his face that turns into a smirk that she just wants to punch off his face. But she still does as he says, and puts her hand on her hip and glares at the camera, and manages to walk away without causing any chronic damage.

Two weeks later, she's a model.

.

On the day of her first photo shoot, she wakes up at four-thirty and catches walks to one of the endless skyscrapers, skirting her fingers along the lighted buttons in the lift with her unusually plain nails.

She walks in, and only five minutes later is she brought into a dressing room, clenching her teeth when millions of people crowd around her, trying to do her hair, face, clothes, and nails all at once. She's pushed into a chair and instantly a brush is brought to her cheek, and a comb is brought to her hair. She doesn't know how long they're at her, but everywhere hurts, and her eyes continue to fall close as she dreams about her name in shining lights and her feet on the red carpet (_give me fame, give me fortune, give my Hollywood, baby_).

She opens her eyes and sees red lipstick and black mascara, and dark blue eye shadow, and then they whisk her away for clothes, and it's all too much of a blur for her to really notice anything she sees in front of the clear glass after that.

They put her in a dress and stupidly high highheels, and she clenches her fists and digs her newly painted nails into her palms when they tell her to smile, only managing a sly smirk as she turns her head this way&that way, cocking her hip to the side. The cameras flash, and the cameraman shakes his head, and her smirk fades some more.

But then, they put her in black skinny jeans, and black boots, and her it let out of its tight ponytail, and this time, they don't ask her to smile, and she feels just a little bit better.

They ask her if she'll come back next week, do the same thing again&again&again, but someone waves a cheque in front of her eyes, and suddenly it looks just a little more tempting and a little more bearable, and yes comes from her lip-sticked lips.

.

She sees herself in a catalogue the following week, and she can't help but wonder how much of her was photo-shopped, whether she really looks that good or that bad or that pretty or that ugly.

She shuts the catalogue and throws it in the bin.

.

She models for the catalogue for the next few weeks, stuffing the cheques under her mattress and wondering how many will change her luck and let her get a successful audition. She walks into the building, hiding behind large sunglasses and small cups of coffee, letting her boots slap against the gleaming tile floor.

It's only a month after that she's asked to become a runway model, and she nearly spits her coffee out onto the spotless floor. She wonders how many more dresses she'll have to wear, how many more high heels will attack her feet, how many more people would know her name (though really, she knows that they'd just know her body). She says maybe.

.

She gets an audition, and she tries her hardest, but even she can feel that her acting skills are a little bit rusty, and the words seem to break as they come out of her mouth. As soon as the audition is over, she buys a bottle of beer and spends the rest of the afternoon sitting at the back of her hotel, barely drinking the beer.

She gets a half-hearted call back and a message on her mobile telling her that she has a nice face, and she doesn't believe either of them.

(She says yes to being a runway model, and she finally manages to finish that bottle of beer.)

.

Her first catwalk show is at eight o'clock at night, and she's felt nauseous all day and she's not sure if she should be there because she may be sick and she hasn't eaten anything all day.

She walks into a world of dresses and hairspray and unfamiliar faces with high cheekbones and painted lips, and she wants to run away from it all because she doesn't belong here (even though she doesn't know where she belongs anymore). But then she hears her name on unfamiliar lips, and then she's being put in a dress and make-up, and she sort of knows what to do now.

She gets pushed onto the runway, and she's sort of terrified she'll vomit, but not really because she's Jade West and she doesn't really do that, so she continues to walk, her high heels almost tipping on the floor as she walks, while she stares vacantly into the sea of faces, blank expressions on their faces. Soon, she's walking back, and she finally thinks she'll be able to breathe again.

She only goes on once because she's new. The rest of the evening is spent sitting in a corner in a haze of smoke and hairspray, watching the other models go in and out in and out, and letting her hair go back to normal.

Without warning, a man in a suit comes up to her, and she can only look down at her shoes as he talks to her, saying that he wants to sign her, and somewhere, she thinks that she's heard those words before in her dreams, but in a completely different setting and with a bigger smirk on her face. She looks up at him, and a tired yes comes out of her mouth, and he smiles (or smirks, she can't really tell the difference anymore), and whispers in her ear that she could lose a few pounds.

Fuck him.

He walks away, and she hugs her knees to her chest, suddenly feeling cold and lonely. Through her curtain of her, she sees someone come close to her, sliding down the wall beside her.

"Hey," the girl says. "You ok? You look kind of pale?"

"This isn't new information," she snaps, and to her annoyance, the girl smirks.

"You new here?" The girl asks.

"Yes," she answers, irritation creeping into her voice. With only a hint of reluctance, she takes a cigarette from the box the girl is offering, sharing her lighter and taking a deep breath.

"Well, you smoke like a pro," the girl replies. "I'm Sheila, by the way."

"Jade," she says. "And I've seen my mum smoke enough times to be able to copy it," she adds. Sheila smirks again.

"Welcome to the fashion world."

.

She sees herself in a magazine, wearing jeans and boots and looking for once just a little bit like her, and she _almost_ smiles. But on the very next page, she sees the name **BECK OLIVER **with a photo of him smiling&smirking and looking so fucking much like Beck, and her jaw tightens.

(Somewhere in her head she can hear the cliché fairy tale, the Model and the Actor, but it's been done and they're too beautiful to be anything but tragic.)

She throws her half-eaten salad in the bin, searching through her handbag for her box of cigarettes, and refuses to buy the magazine. She doesn't care, anyway.

.

She's in a range of fashion shows, dresses swishing on her thighs, high heels digging into her feet, people pulling at her hair – she's almost used to it now.

"Sweetie, you gotta lose some extra pounds," Sheila says. "You're never going to get serious until you do. No one likes it, but you have to."

"I want be an actress," Jade replies, feeling a little indignant.

"Yeah, but you're a model," says Sheila. "And besides, what's the difference? No one likes a fat actress – well, they do, but you don't see many of them unless they're being all angsty and stuff."

She refuses to look at her, folding her arms over her chest and glaring at the skyscraper in front of her, at the same time trying not to look at her reflection in the glass. Her gaze moves to her feet, still stuck red leather boots with fucking glitter on the toes.

"Jade, you're about to get cut, and even if you don't, then you certainly won't be going to the New York fashion show. You'll look prettier," Sheila says, taking a cigarette from her bag and lighting it. "Plus, it could kick start your acting career and blah blah blah, I bet you know the rest."

"Modelling is stupid," Jade says, stealing a cigarette. "And I hate New York, so shut up."

"You'll do it," says Sheila, rolling her eyes.

"We all know how that fairy tale ends," she says. Sheila laughs, and they both get up when their names are called, and Jade starts to wonder when exactly everything gets better and falls into place (and when exactly she begins to look _pretty_).

.

She goes a whole day without eating, and at the end of it, she thinks she can hear a broken hallelujah playing just like it did when she was thirteen and her grandma died.

.

She manages to lose enough weight to just&onlyjust make it to the New York fashion show.

She walks through the city, the traffic blurring past her and filling her ears with noise. Slowly, she's beginning to realise that almost every city looks the same, and that there's nothing new to explore, and every hotel room feels less and less like home then the last one. Suddenly, she feels more bitter than ever before.

The fashion show is filled with more bodies and more faces than she's used to, and this time she gets more clothing and face time then previously, and it makes one corner of her mouth rise a bit. She finds the cat walk a breath of fresh air from the room of skinny legs and the smell of acrylic, even if all the eyes on her make her wobble slightly in her shoes.

Sheila takes her out for a movie after the fashion show – it has Beck in it, and she really, really wants to laugh at the irony. But she doesn't, because she doesn't really know how to that anymore.

"That's it," Sheila says. "I'm marrying him; he can pull off a denim jacket."

(She still has his denim jacket tucked away in her suitcase – shh, every model has a secret.)

.

She has to board her plane back to LA in four hours, but for some reason, she's wandering the streets, even though there's nothing new to see and the traffic seems far too loud. Bright colours, and black sunglasses, and yellow taxis all fill her vision, yet somehow, it's the tiny poster that catches her eye.

Only an hour later, she's cancelled her flight, booked her hotel room for another three weeks, and has called her agency to tell them that she's staying in New York, and if they want, they can drop her, which they don't.

Two days later, she tries out for Broadway, and even though her voice shakes and quivers, and her knees tremble as she sings, she manages to get in. She doesn't know why, but she smiles, and it's big, and it's sort of real.

.

The Broadway show gets ten shows, and she gets to twirl in a dress without feeling like an idiot, and gets to put her hair down and not have any product in it for once. And she sort of loves life, but then it gets cancelled, and she's right back to where she started; only now she's renting an apartment and she's made up her mind to stay in New York.

"I'd like to remind you that you said you hated New York," says Sheila. "Speaking of which, I'm coming over because of a catalogue shoot with Vogue."

"I still do, just not as much," Jade replies. "And well done, any chance that I could join you?"

"Why, exactly, are you still poor?" Sheila asks.

"I'm not, I just need work."

"Oh yeah, sorry your little Broadway thing didn't work out. But, the answer is still no; hire a playboy and feel pretty in your own time, not mine."

"Meh, I always preferred singing over acting anyways," she replies. "And I don't need to feel pretty, I just need work."

"I'll call someone," Sheila sighs. "You better love me."

.

& a f t e r t h a t i t ' s a l l j u s t r e r u n s.

.

She's hiding behind big sunglasses, and she doesn't have any make-up for once. The coffee feels warm through the foam in her cold hands, and all she needs now is for the cashier is too hurry the fuck up and give her some damn change.

"Want me to pay for it?" A voice asks (and then it stops, and so does her heart, and she wants to crydieflyaway).

"No," she says. "Already have."

The cashier finally hands her the change, and she thinks she's escaped, but then she feels a hand on her shoulder, and even through her shirt she can feel that it's a thousand times warmer than the coffee in her hand. She stops, even though she doesn't want to, and gently the hand turns her around until she facing Beck. He smiles, and the world _f_a_l_l_s_ a p a r t.

"Hey Jade," he says.

"Beck," she nods.

"Wanna go have a chat over coffee?" He asks.

"God no," she says, and he laughs, and as cliché as it sounds, it sounds like bells and she wants to smile through her tears. He looks her in the eye. "But we may as well."

.

"You're a big, big movie star now," she says, taking a sip of her coffee and leaning back against the cold metal of her chair. "Well done."

"Thanks, and I hear that you're a model now," he says, and she thinks that there really should be a snort or a chuckle at the end of that. She raises her eyebrows, to which Beck smiles at her and shrugs his shoulders. "I've seen you in a couple of magazines."

"So," she says. "Why are you in New York?"

"Well, we're shooting the final shots of a movie here, and the premiere will also be here, so, I'll be staying here for at least another month," Beck replies, combing a hand through his hair. "Any chance that we could meet up again?" He asks after a moment of silence.

She drains the last of her coffee and almost slams the cup back on the table, pressing her lips even more tightly together when she realises that it did nothing to warm her up.

"Maybe," is all she says. She looks down at her watch and realises that they've been talking for only ten minutes, and she really needs to go because it's Beck and she's Jade and it's _complicated_.

"I've –"

"– got to go, I know," Beck finishes for her. "I'll see you around, I guess."

She wonders if that's true or not, and whose fault it will be.

.

They go out two days later, and Jade may or may not hate herself for allowing it.

She tries not to make an effort for him, tries so hard, but she still ends up wearing her best pair of jeans and her best boots, and her best t-shirt and leather jacket, and she wonders if he'll even notice. He doesn't, though she's not surprised.

He takes her out for a movie and buys her a milkshake, and it reminds her a little bit of their seventh date when they were in high school, except his arm isn't around her and the movie wasn't as crappy as this one (but he still tries to kiss, and this time she pushes her away because Beck is Tori's and even though she hates Tori, she hates Beck more for doing this to her).

He walks her back to her apartment the long way, going along the lighted buildings and the dark bars where he buys her a drink. When they finally get to her apartment, he leans against the doorway and wishes her good night, and she smiles that stupid Beck smile of his.

(And this time, when he tries to kiss her, she doesn't pull away, and then he's in her apartment and on her bed, and his fingers are tracing patterns on her rib cage.)

.

She doesn't think she's ever looked more beautiful than she does now, with only Beck's flannel shirt and her underwear covering her, with her hair still ruffled and her lips still red and slightly swollen from last night.

She walks into the lounge to find Beck already dressed, and a cup of coffee in his hand and a slight frown on his face. Immediately, she folds her arms over her chest and stares at him before he sighs and puts the cup down on the bench. He then runs a hand through his already messy hair, and looks at her from head to toe.

"Jade," he starts. "I'm worried about you – you're too thin. Maybe modelling, I don't know, maybe you should stop; maybe it's making you too stressed."

Her jaw tightens and her hands close into a fist. Wordlessly, she grabs her jeans from the lounge and her boots, and then pours his cup of coffee over his head. She deliberately slams the door behind her.

She has no idea where to go, so instead she wanders around the city with her head down and her hands stuffed into the pockets of her jeans. By the time she gets back, Beck's already left, and she really, truly, doesn't care.

.

She doesn't talk to Beck for the rest of the month, and she mails his two shirts, and his denim jacket back to him.

.

Two weeks later, he's back at her door.

"What the hell are you doing here?" She asks, only opening the door a crack.

"Came to give you back my shirts and my jacket," he replies, "I want you to have them."

"Well I don't want them," Jade says, starting to close the door. Before she can, Beck grabs her wrist to stop her.

"I'm taking you out for lunch," he says. "And there's nothing you can do about it."

He takes her to the beach, even though they're four weeks into autumn, and the leaves are turning red and brown and starting to fall. Grudgingly, she puts on his jacket when the wind begins to pick up, but she refuses to let him hug her for warmth. She watches the waves on the beach roll against the stand, the water grey against the sky.

"So, are you actually going to talk to me?" Beck asks, taking a bite of his fish and chips.

"You're the one that wanted to talk in the first place, not me," she says, sighing as she turns her gaze away from the sea to look at him. "_You_ start the conversation."

He stays silent for a while, thinking about what to say. He looks out onto the water, and she manages to take three of his chips without him noticing.

"Well," he starts. "I may be getting a part in this movie," he says.

"Aha," she stays, stealing another chip. And another one.

"Yeah, it's about this – ugh, would you like me to get you your own? You've already stolen seven of my chips," Beck says.

"Ten," Jade corrects. "And nope." Beck laughs.

"Ok then."

.

He stays a couple more days, but then he goes back to California.

She already misses him.

(Tori says, _kiss me_, and he does. Tori says, _come back, I love you_, and he goes.)

.

It's the middle of winter, and she's _so fucking cold_. But she still models, and she's still in dresses and high heels, and she can't help but think just how unpractical it all is. She relies on cigarettes for warmth now, trying to make the little glowing embers warm up her body, bring the glow back to her skin and the shine back to her hair. She barely leaves her apartment, making sure that the outside air doesn't steal her warmth.

God, she hates winter.

With a bitterness that even she didn't know she possessed, she realises that she's been modelling for almost two years now, and that she isn't anywhere near where she wanted to be. New York hasn't seemed so lonely and so barren before, even with the hundreds of people rushing in and out each day, their footprints imprinted on the snow. But the trees have no leaves, and have a ghostly feel about them, and she suddenly misses summer, spring, and even autumn.

Sheila comes up at the end of July for a fashion show, her face completely white and her lips almost blue as she comes through the door, her arms pressed tightly to her sides as she squeezes her jacket for all its warmth.

"If you don't give me a cigarette now, I will die of hypothermia right now, and I'm blaming you even if it is bloody Global Warming," she says, hurriedly pushing past her.

They walk to the fashion show, scarves wrapped tightly around their faces. She notices girls on the streets, pretty faces splashed with too much make-up and dressed in skimpy outfits even though it's freezing. She wonders how long it will take for her too end up on the streets, with no money and a weight goal still stuck in her head.

They walk in, and the routine of hair, make-up, and clothes begins again.

She faints when she realises that there are new models, and that she will only appear three times rather than four.

.

She really, really doesn't want to eat. All she wants is Beck.

.

She doesn't go to an eating disorder clinic, because she doesn't need help and she doesn't need to get fat, _thank you very much_.

She's a model.

But she still eats, and she still gains weight, and even though you can still see her ribcage she calls it a success and rings the agency to tell them that she can model again – not that she ever couldn't.

.

Beck Oliver is back in town.

_(Go away, come again another day.)_

.

She's moving back to LA, because it's sunnier and warmer there, and she misses the beaches and the Hollywood sign, and the thought that maybe she could start all over.

It's her last day in New York, and she's doing her last photo shoot. This time, she wears a white sundress even though it's only just beginning to feel like spring, and she's asked to smile. She does, and she tries to feel happy, especially when everybody calls her pretty.

(And then she realises the real reason why she ever got into modelling, to be called _pretty_.)

They let her keep the dress, and for some reason, she lets them give it to her.

She spends the rest of the day saying goodbye to the few people she knows, and then calling Sheila to say she'd be arriving soon. The rest of the day is spent packing half-heartedly, not really worried because her flight doesn't leave until one o'clock in the morning.

She looks at herself in the mirror, her slightly sunken in face, her still painted lips. _oh god i hate it i hate it i hate it._ Without really thinking, she puts on the white sundress from earlier, and goes out to a bar. Hell, she has time to kill.

.

It's twelve thirty, and the airport is an hour's drive. She still has the white dress on, and her high heels are echoing on the dark sidewalk. The street has an eerie glow to it from the streetlamps, making her skin almost look translucent. She goes to the bus stop even though the last bus left thirty minutes ago and she really needs to hurry back to her apartment and get her half-packed suitcase.

She thinks she could use a cigarette.

She sighs and leans against the nearest streetlamp, wincing slightly as its light fills her eyes. Her eyes move down to her high heels (they really are fucking impractical). She turns her head slightly and sees a silhouette – and her heart thuds in her chest in an annoyingly familiar way. _OhgodohgodBeckBeckBeck_.

He moves into the glow of the streetlight, and she his hands are in his pockets and he's wearing his old boots, and he just looks so much like her perfect Beck. She wants to run away, but she knows she can't because she's wearing high heels. He gives her a slight smile.

"You are so pretty," he says softly.

She sighs and looks down at her feet again before looking up at him, and sighs. She tries.

"I don't believe you," she says.

* * *

**Disclaimer: I do not own Victorious. Title comes from the Tumblr account of the same name. Inspired by the whole "You're girlfriend's pretty" thing in **_**Wi-Fi in the Sky**_**.**

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**A/N: Review if you have questions about what happened/hate it/like it etc. **


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